Blocking the Buggies

The roar of "Waaagh!" drew closer and closer to Joseph. His heart pounded as he gripped his Lasgun tightly, as though that alone could give him a little sense of security.

"Everyone, get ready! Aim!"

The sergeant's booming voice rang out once more. This worthy sergeant had survived the Orks' artillery fire without showing the slightest sign of fear, roaring out orders with high spirits.

"Damn it, you coward who deserves to get your skull split open! I told you to set up the gun, not shake like a mess hall cook handing out food! I swear to the God-Emperor, if you keep torturing that machine gun, I'll have the machine spirit execute you myself, you bastard!"

"Hahahaha."

The sergeant's scolding and the soldiers' laughter reached Joseph's ears. They seemed utterly out of place on this grim and murderous battlefield. After silently praying for that unlucky fellow, the snipers on the position began their precise killings.

The Orks' red-painted metal buggies tore across everything in their path at high speed. Several machine guns of varying models were welded to the front of those crude vehicles. Amid the roar of engines, the guns spat storms of bullets along with the passionate howls of their Ork drivers. Railings lined both sides of the buggies, where Ork warriors held oversized pistols in one hand and fired wildly at the Astra Militarum positions, while gripping the rails with the other and savoring the exhilarating rush of the wind.

The most common means of transport among Orks: all kinds of trucks.

Sniper rounds flew through the Orks' completely exposed front windshields and struck the crazed drivers reveling in the thrill of speed. The dead drivers slumped over their steering wheels, and the red metal buggies speeding along lost control, swerving wildly as they crashed toward the vehicles on either side.

"Arghhh, you runt! Think you can block my buggy? Dream on!" Facing the out-of-control metal buggy charging at him, the Ork driver showed no fear. Without caring about the other Ork Boyz hanging from the sides, he rammed it back with his own vehicle.

"Aaaaah!" The Ork Boyz hanging from both sides were terrified by their driver's superb driving. The quick ones immediately let go of the railings and fell to the ground rolling. The slower Orks were ground into meat patties in the collision, their blood and chunks of flesh smeared across the vehicle's surface.

That out-of-control metal buggy finally lost all stability in the collision and flipped headfirst into the dirt, becoming a useless heap of scrap. Still, if the Orks dragged this thing with its vehicle frame intact back home, hammered it into shape, and gave it a fresh coat of red paint, it would probably race back onto the battlefield again.

There was certainly more than one driver suffering such sniper attacks, but there were simply too many Orks charging forward. Hundreds, even thousands, of Ork vehicles that had successfully crossed the minefield rapidly closed in on the Astra Militarum's first trench line at unbelievable speeds. Machine guns and Lasguns meant to suppress the Orks' advance opened fire, knocking Ork Boyz clinging to the vehicles off their rides. Every so often, a barrage of explosive shells came screaming in and sent an entire vehicle flying into the air.

The metal buggies that successfully leaped over the trenches had no intention of stopping. The Ork Boyz who had been waiting on them for so long, however, jumped down one after another, drew the heavy axes hanging at their waists, and lunged at the soldiers in the trenches.

"Chop 'em up!"

"For the Emperor!"

Two entirely different battle cries, carrying entirely different emotions.

The former was for pleasure—for releasing their excess energy in exhilarating combat, for finding a good fight worthy of bragging about for the rest of their lives.

The latter was to survive the hands of those hulking green monsters, to protect this planet from invasion, and to prove to the Emperor they devoutly worshipped that they possessed brave and loyal souls.

A soldier drove his bayonet fiercely into the abdomen of an Ork Boy who had just jumped down from a vehicle and had yet to regain his footing. The monomolecular bayonet sliced him open without much effort, spilling blood and intestines all over the ground. Yet the Ork did not die quickly from such a grievous wound. With a backhand swing of his axe, he chopped off the soldier's head, then used one huge hand to laboriously stuff his slipping intestines back into his belly.

"As long as I stuff 'em back in, I can keep fighting!"

But the other soldiers gave him no such chance, burning him into a charred roasted mushroom with a close-range volley.

"Soldier, keep your attention on the fight! Don't look around! Aim your machine gun at those green-skinned beasts running toward us!"

"But, sir, they've already rushed into the trenches!"

"You idiot! You're not afraid of the greater number of green-skinned beasts, but you're worried about these cripples with broken legs instead? Don't make me repeat myself!"

"Yes, sir!"

That kid had to be scared out of his wits. He was surely a raw recruit. Joseph and his comrades cautiously watched for lone Orks pouncing in from outside the trench.

To be honest, those green-skinned things were huge and strong, with frighteningly nimble movements. They were like veteran enforcers who had spent years scrabbling through the underworld gangs—deadly and skilled, the kind who would never throw a second punch if they said the first would kill you.

But their one problem was that they really did not have enough brains. Faced with Joseph's gleaming fixed bayonet, the first instinct of this green-skinned brute standing above the trench was not to raise the gun in his hand and fire, but to howl and leap straight down.

Joseph barely had to move. The Ork simply impaled himself on the bayonet fixed to Joseph's rifle and died.

With great effort, Joseph kicked the muscular monster away, then raised his gun and saved a soldier who had been knocked down by an Ork and was about to have his head cleaved off by an axe.

A precise red laser beam pierced the Ork's head, and his body toppled down onto the fallen soldier.

After laboriously helping the soldier crawl out from beneath the corpse, Joseph and his comrades covered one another, ready at any moment to eliminate the next Ork that appeared.

"Hah... hah... Thank you, sir." The feeling of surviving the disaster left the soldier weak and drained. He leaned half against the trench wall, which stood taller than a man, and panted heavily.

"If I were you, I'd pick up my weapon."

Joseph reminded him coldly. He had not saved the man out of kindness; he merely hoped that having more people alive would increase his own chances of surviving this damned battle.

"Yes! Yes, sir."

Too lazy to correct the man's mistake, Joseph curled his lip and peered through the observation slit ahead, watching the Orks about to charge in. After running so far behind the metal buggies, these foot soldiers could still howl with undiminished enthusiasm. Their crudely made armor was covered in polished, gleaming scraps of metal that looked more like ornamental accessories.

A small number of Orks wore metal helmets adorned with spikes or animal horns, while the rest sported all manner of bizarre hairstyles. Even the craziest trendsetters in the gangs would have been ashamed by those distinctive, crudely spiked hairdos.